Valdir's despachante in Corumba knew another one in Sao Paulo, a powerful one with high contacts, and for a fee of two thousand dollars a new passport would be delivered.

JEW SPENT the next few mornings at the river, helping a friend repair a chalana. He watched everything and heard the gossip. Not a word about the woman. By noon on Friday, he was convinced she had not arrived in Corumba, at least not in the past two weeks. Jevy knew all the fishermen, captains, and deckhands. And they loved to talk. If an American woman who lived with the Indians suddenly arrived in town, they would know it.

Nate searched until the end of the week. He walked the streets, watched the crowds, checked out hotel lobbies and sidewalk cafes, looked at the faces, and saw no one even remotely resembling Rachel.

At one on his last day, he stopped at Valdir's office and collected his passport. They said good-bye like old friends, and promised to see each other soon. Both knew it would never happen. At two, Jevy drove him to the airport. They sat in the departure lounge for half an hour, watching as the only plane was unloaded, then prepped for reboarding. Jevy wanted to spend time in the United States, and needed Nate's help. “I'll need a job,” he said. Nate listened with sympathy, not certain if he himself was still employed.

“I'll see what I can do.”

They talked about Colorado and the West and places Nate had never been. Jevy was in love with the mountains, and after two weeks in the Pantanal Nate understood this. When it was time to go, they embraced warmly and said farewell. Nate walked across the hot pavement to the plane, carrying his entire wardrobe in a small gym bag.

The turbo-prop with twenty seats landed twice before it reached Campo Grande. There, the passengers boarded for Sao Paulo. The lady in the seat next to him ordered a beer from the drink cart. Nate studied the can less dun ten inches away. Not anymore, he told himself. He closed his eyes and asked God to give him strength. He ordered coffee.

The flight to Dulles left at midnight. It would arrive in D.C. at nine the next morning. His search for Rachel had taken him out of die country for almost three weeks.

He wasn't sure where his car was. He had no place to live, and no means to get one. But he couldn't worry. Josh would take care of die details.

THE PLANE dropped through the clouds at nine thousand feet. Nate was awake, sipping coffee, dreading the streets of home. The streets were cold and white. The earth was blanketed by a heavy snow. It was lovely for a few minutes as they approached Dulles, then Nate remembered how much he hated the winter. He wore a thin pair of trousers, no socks, cheap sneakers, and a fake Polo shirt he'd paid six dollars for in the Sao Paulo airport. He had no coat.

He would sleep somewhere that night, probably in a hotel, unsupervised in D.C. for die first time since August 4, die night he'd staggered into a suburban motel room. It had happened at die bottom of a long, pathetic crash. He'd worked hard to forget it.

But that was the old Nate, and now there was a new one. He was forty-eight years old, thirteen months away from fifty, and ready for a different life. God had fortified him, and strengthened his resolve. He had thirty years left. They wouldn't be spent clutching empty bottles. Nor would they be spent on the run.

Snowplows raced about as they taxied to the terminal. The runways were wet and flurries were still falling. When Nate stepped off the plane into the tunnel, winter hit him and he thought of the humid streets of Corumba. Josh was waiting at the baggage claim, and of course he had an extra overcoat.

“You look awful,” were his first words.

“Thanks.” Nate grabbed the coat and put it on.

“You're skinny as a rail.”

“You wanna lose fifteen pounds, find the right mosquito.”

They moved with a mob toward the exits, bodies jostling and bumping, a shove here, a push there, the throng squeezing tighter to fit through doors. Welcome home, he said to himself.

“You're traveling light,” Josh said, pointing at his gym bag.

“My worldly possessions.”

With no socks or gloves, Nate was freezing on the curb by the time Josh found him with the car. The snowstorm had hit during the night, and had attained the status of a blizzard. Against the buildings the drifts had reached two feet.

“It was ninety-three yesterday in Corumba,” Nate said as they left the airport.

“Don't tell me you miss it.”

“I do. Suddenly, I do.”

“Look, Gayle is in London. I thought you could stay at our place for a couple of days.”

Josh's house could sleep fifteen. “Sure, thanks. Where's my car?”

“In my garage.”

Of course it was. It was a leased Jaguar, and it no doubt had been properly serviced, washed, and waxed, and the monthly payments were current. “Thanks, Josh.”

“I put your furnishings in a mini-storage. Your clothes and personal effects are packed in the car.”

“Thanks.” Nate was not at all surprised.

“How do you feel?”

“I'm fine.”

“Look, Nate, I've read about dengue fever. It takes a month to fully recover. Level with me.”

A month. It was the opening jab in the fight over Nate's future with the firm. Take another month, old boy. Maybe you're too ill to work. Nate could write the script.

But there would be no fight.

“I'm a little weak, that's all. I'm sleeping a lot, drinking a lot of liquids.”

“What kind of liquids?”

“Get right to the point, don't you?”

“I always do.”

“I'm clean, Josh. Relax. No stumbles.”

Josh had heard that many times. The exchange had been a bit sharper than both men wanted, so they rode in silence for a while. The traffic was slow.

The Potomac was half-frozen with large chunks of ice floating slowly toward Georgetown. Stalled in traffic on the Chain Bridge, Nate announced, matter-of-factly, “I'm not going back to the office, Josh. Those days are over.”

There was no visible reaction from Josh. He could've been disappointed because an old friend and fine litigator was calling it quits. He could've been delighted because a major headache was quietly leaving the firm. He could've been indifferent because Nate's exit was probably inevitable. The tax evasion mess would ultimately cost him his license anyway.

So he simply asked, “Why?”

“Lots of reasons, Josh. Let's just say I'm tired.”

“Most litigators burn out after twenty years.”

“So I've heard.”

Enough of the retirement talk. Nate's mind was made up, and Josh didn't want to change it. The Super Bowl was two weeks away, and the Redskins were not in it. They seized the topic of football, as men usually do when they have to keep the conversation going in the midst of weightier matters.

Even under a heavy layer of snow, the streets looked mean to Nate.

THE STAFFORDS owned a large house in Wesley Heights, in Northwest D.C. They also had a cottage on the Chesapeake and a cabin in Maine. The four kids were grown and scattered. Mrs. Stafford preferred to travel while her husband preferred to work.

Nate retrieved some warm clothes from the trunk of his car, then enjoyed a hot shower in the guest quarters. The water pressure was weaker in Brazil. The shower in his hotel room was never hot, and never cold. The bars of soap were smaller. He compared the things around him. He was amused at the thought of the shower on the Santa Loura, a cord above the toilet that, when pulled, delivered lukewarm river water from a shower head. He was tougher than he thought; the adventure had taught him that much.

He shaved and then worked on his teeth, going about his habits with great deliberation. In many ways, it was nice to be home.

Josh's office in his basement was larger than the one downtown, and just as cluttered. They met there for coffee. It was time to debrief. Nate began with the ill-fated effort to find Rachel by air, the crash landing, the dead cow, the three little boys, the bleakness of Christmas in the Pantanal. With great detail, he recounted the story of his ride on the horse, and the encounter in the swamp with the curious alligator. Then the rescue by helicopter. He said nothing about the binge on Christmas night; it would serve no purpose and he was terribly ashamed of it. He described Jevy, Welly, the Santa Loura, and the trip north. When he and Jevy were lost in the johnboat, he remembered being frightened but too busy to be consumed with fear. Now, in the safety of civilization, their wanderings seemed terrifying.

Josh was astounded by the adventure. He wanted to apologize for sending Nate into such a treacherous place, but the excursion had obviously been exciting. The alligators grew as the narrative continued. The lone anaconda, sunning by the river, was joined by another that swam near their boat.

Nate described the Indians, their nakedness and bland food and languid lives, the chief and his refusal to let them leave.

And Rachel. At that point in the debriefing, Josh took his legal pad and began writing notes. Nate portrayed her in great detail, from her soft slow voice to her sandals and hiking boots. Her hut and medicine bag, Lako and his limp, and the way the Indians looked at her when she walked by. He told the story of the child who died from the snakebite. He relayed what little of her history she'd given him.

With the precision of a courtroom veteran, Nate covered everything about Rachel that he'd gathered on his visit. He used her exact words when talking about the money and the paperwork. He remembered her comment about how primitive Troy's handwritten will looked.

Nate recounted what little he remembered of their retreat from the Pantanal. And he downplayed the horror of dengue fever. He had survived, and that in itself surprised him.

A maid brought soup and hot tea for lunch. “Here's where we are,” Josh said after a few spoonfuls. “If she rejects the gift under Troy's will, then the money remains in his estate. If, however, the will is found to be invalid for any reason, then there is no will.”

“How can the will be invalid? They had psychiatrists talking to him minutes before he jumped.”

“Now there are more psychiatrists, well paid and with different opinions. It'll get messy. All of his prior wills were shredded. If it's one day found that he died with no valid will, then his children, all seven of them, will share equally in his estate. Since Rachel doesn't want a share, then hers will be divided by the other six.”

“Those fools will get a billion dollars each.”

“Something like that.”

“What are the chances of striking down his will?”

“Not good. I'd rather have our case than theirs, but things can change.”

Nate walked around the room, nibbling on a saltine, weighing the issues. “Why fight for the validity of the will if Rachel declines everything?”

“Three reasons,” Josh said quickly. As usual, he had analyzed everything from all possible angles. There was a master plan, and it would be revealed to Nate piece by piece. “First, and most important, my client prepared a valid will. It gave away his assets exactly as he wanted. I, as his lawyer, have no choice but to fight to protect the integrity of the will. Second, I know how Mr. Phelan felt about his children. He was horrified that they would somehow get their hands on his money. I share his feelings about them, and I shudder to think what would happen if they got a billion each. Third, there's always a chance Rachel will change her mind.”

“Don't count on it.”

“Look, Nate, she's only human. She has those papers with her. She'll wait a few days and start to think about them. Maybe thoughts of wealth have never entered her mind, but at some point she has to think of all the good things she could do with the money. Did you explain trusts and charitable foundations to her?”

“I barely know what those are myself, Josh. I was a litigator, remember?”

“We're gonna fight to protect Mr. Phelan's will,

Nate. Problem is, the biggest seat at the table is empty. Rachel needs representation.”

“No she doesn't. She's oblivious.”

“The litigation can't proceed until she has a lawyer.”

Nate was no match for the master strategist. The black hole opened from nowhere, and he was already falling into it. He closed his eyes and said, “You must be kidding.”

“No. And we can't delay much longer. Troy died a month ago. Judge Wycliff is desperate to know the whereabouts of Rachel Lane. Six lawsuits have been filed contesting the will, and there's a lot of pressure behind them. Everything gets reported in the papers. If we give any hint that Rachel plans to decline the bequest, then we lose control. The Phelan heirs and their lawyers go crazy. The Judge suddenly loses interest in upholding Troy's last testament.”

“So I'm her lawyer?”

“There's no way around it, Nate. If you're quitting, that's fine, but you have to take one last case. Just sit at the table and protect her interests. We'll do the heavy lifting.”

“But there's a conflict. I'm a partner in your firm.”

“It's a minor conflict because our interests are the same. We-the estate and Rachel-have the same goal of protecting the will. We sit at the same table. And technically, we can claim you left the firm last August.”

“There's a lot of truth in that.”

Both acknowledged the sad truth. Josh sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving Nate. “At some point we go to Wycliff and tell him that you found Rachel, that she plans to make no appearance at this time, that she's not sure what to do, but that she wants you to protect her interests.”

“Then we'll be lying to the Judge.”

“It's a small lie, Nate, and he'll thank us for it later. He's anxious to start proceedings, but he can't until he hears from Rachel. If you're her lawyer, the war begins. I'll do the lying.”

“So I'm a one-man office working on my last case.”

“Right.”

“I'm leaving town, Josh. I'm not staying.” Nate said this, then he laughed. “Where would I stay?”

“Where are you going?”

“I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead.”

“I have an idea.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“Take my cottage on Chesapeake Bay. We don't use it in the wintertime. It's at St. Michaels, two hours away. You can drive in when you're needed, and stay here. Again, Nate, we'll do the work.”

Nate studied the bookshelves for a while. Twenty-four hours earlier he'd been eating a sandwich on a park bench, in Corumba, watching the pedestrians and waiting for Rachel to appear. He had vowed to never again voluntarily step into a courtroom.

But he grudgingly admitted that the plan had its strong points. He certainly couldn't imagine a better client. The case would never go to trial. And with the money at stake he could at least earn a living for a few months.

Josh finished his soup and moved to the next item on the list. “I propose a fee of ten thousand dollars a month.”

“That's generous, Josh.”

“I think we can squeeze it from the old man's estate. With no overhead, it'll get you back on your feet.”

“Until,..”

“Right, until we settle with the IRS.”

“Any word from the Judge?”

“I call him occasionally. We had lunch last week.”

“So he's your buddy?”

“We've known each other for a long time. Forget jail, Nate. The government will settle for a big fine and a five-year suspension of your law license.”

“They can have my law license.”

“Not yet. We need it for one more case.”

“How long will the government wait?”

“A year. It's not a priority.”

“Thanks, Josh.” Nate was tired again. The all-night flight, the ravages of the jungle, the mental jousting with Josh. He wanted a warm soft bed in a dark room.

THIRTY-NINE.

A six SUNDAY MORNING, Nate finished another hot shower, his third in twenty-four hours, and began making plans for a quick departure. One night in the city, and he was anxious to leave. The cottage on the bay was calling him. D.C. had been his home for twenty-six years, and since the decision to leave had been made, he was eager to move on.

With no address, moving was easy. He found Josh in the basement, at his desk, on the phone with a client in Thailand. As Nate listened to one-half of the conversation about natural gas deposits, he was quite happy to be leaving the practice of law. Josh was twelve years older, a very rich man, and his idea of fun was to be at his desk at six-thirty on a Sunday morning. Don't let it happen to me, Nate said to himself, but he knew it wouldn't. If he went back to the office, he would return to the grind. Four rehabs meant a fifth was somewhere down the road. He wasn't as strong as Josh. He'd be dead in ten years.

There was an element of excitement in walking away.

Suing doctors was a nasty business, one he could do without. Nor would he miss the stress of a high-powered office. He'd had his career, his triumphs. Success had brought him nothing but misery; he couldn't handle it. Success had thrown him in the gutter.

Now that the horror of jail had been removed, he could enjoy a new life.

He left with a trunkload of clothes, leaving the rest in a box in Josh's garage. The snow had stopped, but the plows were still catching up. The streets were slick, and after two blocks it occurred to Nate that he had not held the wheel of a car in over five months. There was no traffic, though, and he crept along Wisconsin into Chevy Chase, then onto the Beltway where the ice and snow had been cleared.

Alone, in his own fine car, he began to feel like an American again. He thought of Jevy in his loud, dangerous Ford truck, and wondered how long he would last on the Beltway. And he thought of Welly, a kid so poor his family owned no car. Nate planned to write letters in the days to come, and he would send one to his buddies in Corumba.

The phone caught his attention. He picked it up; it appeared to be working. Of course Josh had made sure the bills were paid. He called Sergio at home, and they talked for twenty minutes. He got scolded for not calling sooner. Sergio had been worried. He explained the situation with telephone service in the Pantanal. Things were going in a different direction, there were some unknowns, but his adventure was continuing. He was leaving the profession and avoiding jail.

Sergio never asked about sobriety. Nate certainly sounded clean and strong. He gave him the number at the cottage, and they promised to have lunch soon.

He called his oldest son at Northwestern, in Evans-ton, and left a message on the recorder. Where would a twenty-three-year-old grad student be at 7 A.M. on a Sunday morning? Not at early mass. Nate didn't want to know. Whatever his son was doing, he would never screw up as badly as his father. His daughter was twenty-one, an on-again off-again student at Pitt. Their last conversation had been about tuition, a day before Nate checked into the motel room with a bottle of rum and a sack full of pills.

He couldn't find her phone number.

Their mother had remarried twice since leaving Nate. She was an unpleasant person whom he called only when absolutely necessary. He would wait a couple of days, then ask her for their daughter's phone number.

He was determined to make the painful trip west, to Oregon, to at least see his two youngest children. Their mother had remarried too, remarkably to another lawyer, but one who evidently lived a clean life. He would ask them for forgiveness, and try to establish the frail beginnings of a relationship. He wasn't sure how to do this, but he vowed to try.

In Annapolis, he stopped at a cafe and had breakfast. He listened to the weather predictions from a group of rowdy regulars in a booth, and he mindlessly scanned the Post. From the headlines and late-breaking stories, Nate saw nothing that interested him in the least. The news never changed: trouble in the Middle East, trouble in Ireland; scandals in Congress; the markets were up then down; an oil spill; another AIDS drug; guerrillas killing peasants in Latin America; turmoil in Russia.

His clothes hung loose on him, so he ate three eggs with bacon and biscuits. A shaky consensus emerged from the booth that more snow was on the way.

He crossed the Chesapeake on the Bay Bridge. The highways on the eastern shore had not been plowed well. The Jaguar skidded twice, and he slowed down. The car was a year old, and he couldn't remember when the lease expired. His secretary had handled the paperwork. He'd picked the color. He decided to get rid of it as soon as possible and find an old four-wheel drive. The fancy lawyer's car had once seemed so important. Now he had no need for it.

At Easton, he turned onto State Route 33, a road with two inches of loose snow still resting on the blacktop. Nate followed the tracks of other vehicles, and soon passed through sleepy little settlements with harbors filled with sailboats. The shores of the Chesapeake were covered with heavy snow; its waters were deep blue.

St. Michaels had a population of thirteen hundred. Route 33 became Main Street for a few blocks as it ran through the town. There were shops and stores on both sides, old buildings side by side, all well preserved and ready for the postcard.

Nate had heard of St. Michaels all his life. There was a maritime museum, an oyster festival, an active harbor, dozens of quaint little bed-and-breakfasts which attracted city folks for long weekends. He passed the post office and a small church, where the Rector was shoveling snow from the front steps.

The cottage was on Green Street, two blocks off Main, facing north with a view of the harbor. It was Victorian, with twin gables, and a long front porch that wrapped around to the sides. Painted slate blue, with white and yellow trim, the house had snow drifts almost to the front door. The front lawn was small, the driveway under two feet of snow. Nate parked at the curb and fought his way to the porch. He flipped on lights inside as he walked to the rear. In a closet by the back door, he found a plastic shovel.

He spent a wonderful hour cleaning the porch, clearing the drive and sidewalk, working his way back to his car.

Not surprisingly, the house was richly decorated with period pieces, and it was tidy and organized. Josh said a maid came every Wednesday to dust and clean. Mrs. Stafford stayed there for two weeks in the spring and one in the fall. Josh had slept there three nights in the past eighteen months. There were four bedrooms and four baths. Some cottage.

But there was no coffee to be found, and this presented the first emergency of the day. Nate locked the doors and headed for town. The sidewalks were clear and wet from melting snow. According to the thermometer in the window of the barbershop, the temperature was thirty-five degrees. The shops and stores were closed. Nate studied their windows as he ambled along. Ahead, the church bells began.

ACCORDING to the bulletin handed to Nate by the elderly usher, the Rector was Father Phil Lancaster, a short, wiry little man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and curly hair that was red and gray. He could've been thirty-five or fifty. His flock for the eleven o'clock service was old and thin, no doubt hampered by the weather. Mate counted twenty-one people in the small sanctuary, and that included Phil and the organist. There were many gray heads.

It was a handsome church, with a vaulted ceiling, pews and floors of dark wood, four windows of stained glass. When the lone usher took his seat in the back pew, Phil rose in his black robe and welcomed them to Trinity Church, where everyone was at home. His voice was high and nasal, and he needed no microphone. In his prayer he thanked God for snow and winter, for the seasons given as reminders that He was always in control.

They struggled through the hymns and prayers. When Father Phil preached he noticed Nate, the sole visitor, sitting in the next to last row. They exchanged smiles, and for one scary moment Nate was afraid he was about to be introduced to the small crowd.

His sermon was on the subject of enthusiasm, an odd choice given the average age of his congregation. Nate struggled hard to pay attention, but began to drift. His thoughts returned to the little chapel in Corumba, with the front doors open, the windows up, the heat drifting through, the dying Christ suffering on the cross, the young man with the guitar.

Careful not to offend Phil, he managed to keep his eyes fixed on the globe of a dim light on the wall behind and above the pulpit. Given the thickness of the preacher's eyeglasses, he figured his disinterest would go unnoticed.

Sitting in the warm little church, finally safe from the uncertainties of his great adventure, safe from fevers and storms, safe from the dangers of D.C., safe from his addictions, safe from spiritual extinction, Nate realized that for the first time in memory he was at peace. He feared nothing. God was pulling him in some direction. He wasn't certain where, but he wasn't afraid either. Be patient, he told himself.

Then he whispered a prayer. He thanked God for sparing his life, and he prayed for Rachel, because he knew she was praying for him.

The serenity made him smile. When the prayer was over, he opened his eyes and saw that Phil was smiling at him.

After the benediction, they filed past Phil at the front door, each complimenting him on the sermon and mentioning some brief bit of church news. The line moved slowly; it was a ritual. “How's your aunt?” Phil asked one of his flock, then listened carefully as the aunt's latest affliction was described. “How's that hip?” he asked another. “How was Germany?” He clutched their hands and bent forward to hear every word. He knew what was on their minds.

Nate waited patiently at the end of the line. There was no hurry. He had nothing else to do. “Welcome,” Father Phil said as he grabbed Nate by the hand and arm. “Welcome to Trinity.” He squeezed so tightly Nate wondered if he were the first guest in years.

“I'm Nate O'Riley,” he said, then added, “From Washington,” as if that would help define him.

“So nice to have you with us this morning,” Phil said, his big eyes dancing behind the glasses. Up close, the wrinkles revealed that he was at least fifty. His head had more gray curls than red.

“I'm staying in the Stafford cottage for a few days,” Nate said.

“Yes, yes, a lovely home. When did you arrive?”

“This morning.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then you must join us for lunch.”

The aggressive hospitality made Nate laugh. “Well, uh, thanks, but-“

Phil was all smiles too. “No, I insist. My wife makes a lamb stew every time it snows. It's on the stove now. We have so few guests in the wintertime. Please, the parsonage is just behind the church.”

Nate was in the hands of a man who'd shared his Sunday table with hundreds. “Really, I was just stopping by, and I-“

“It's our pleasure,” Phil said, already tugging at Nate's arm and leading him back toward the pulpit. “What do you do in Washington?”

“I'm a lawyer,” Nate said. A complete answer would get complicated.

“What brings you here?”

“It's a long story.”

“Oh wonderful! Laura and I love stories. Let's have a long lunch and tell stories. We'll have a grand time.” His enthusiasm was irresistible. Poor guy was starved for fresh conversation. Why not? thought Nate. There was no food in the cottage. All stores appeared to be closed.

They passed the pulpit and went through a door leading to the rear of the church. Laura was turning off lights. “This is Mr. O'Riley, from Washington,” Phil said loudly to his wife. “He's agreed to join us for lunch.”

Laura smiled and shook Nate's hand. She had short gray hair and looked at least ten years older than her husband. If a sudden guest at the table surprised her, it wasn't evident. Nate got the impression it happened all the time. “Please call me Nate,” he said.

“Nate it is,” Phil announced, peeling off his robe.

The parsonage was adjacent to the church lot, facing a side street. They carefully stepped through the snow. “How was my sermon?” Phil asked her as they stepped onto the porch.

“Excellent, dear,” she said without a trace of enthusiasm. Nate listened and smiled, certain that every Sunday for years Phil had asked the same question, at the same place and time, and received the same answer.

Any hesitation about staying for lunch vanished when he stepped into the house. The rich, heavy aroma of the lamb stew wafted through the den. Phil poked at the orange coals in the fireplace while Laura prepared the meal.